The Weight of Un-clipped Wings
by insomnia manic
Summary: Steve and Tony save each others, and ultimately save themselves. Or where Steve was found in 1974 but he didn't come out unscratched: he lost both his voice and his hearing to the cold ice many thousands feet under.


**Warning**: This is a draft. I need to post it before I lose the courage to. English is my 3rd language so there's going to be a crazy amount of grammatical errors. I need to step back for a few days before going back through the work to fix everything. Come back in a week for a fixed and completed version.

**TRIGGERS WARNING! **They're not bad but they're there.

All mistakes you find are my own. Feel free to point them out and help me improve.

* * *

Part 1 of 2

* * *

Tony:

"Mr. Stark, your recent behavior is unacceptable," the Dean of the college begins. Her face is stern and closed, back straight and hands clasp together on the table, the perfect example of austerity. Tony grins at the picture she paints, all grimness and nothing fun.

She frowns at his expression, looking like she would've wanted nothing else than to expel him.

But both of them know the impossibility of the task. Because despite everything that he does, all the broken rules and expensive damages, he is a Stark: one and only heir to a Fortune-500 company.

He's someone that the school can't afford to make an enemy of.

He's a _very_ troublesome someone who the school _needs_ to put up with.

He's a seventeen year-old genius with too much personality and too little sense.

As a teenager, Tony is as wilful as could be. He's too clever for the common crowd, too smart for school, too wild for polite company, too much of everything that Howard resents. And Tony seems to purposely do everything in his power to drive his father mad; every calculated action, every bad decision, all the free-spirits and rebels he befriends are done for the benefit of screwing with Howard's mentality.

Worse part is that his plan works: whatever Tony does, Howard fumes.

After years of ignoring his son, Howard isn't equipped with the fatherly eyes to see through the antics, the jaunts and larks, the obvious attention-asking tricks. Instead, he only knows to lash out and push the boy away. At the tender age of fifteen, Howard sends his only son away to M.I.T. to evade his duty as a father to a straying teenager, barely old enough to take care of himself.

It's hurt at first, but Tony has long learned to deal with it by drowning himself in whatever carnal pleasure he could find, whatever poison his stubby teenage hands could come across. Despite his infinitely growing intellect, Tony is still naïve in every sense of the word; because he has spent his entire life locked up in a massive mansion, deprived of the most basic of human contacts beyond the frequent company parties.

And Tony knows this. He knows he lacks common sense and whatever else _normal_ humans are supposed to be equipped with, and he's fine with it. Because ultimately, despite his wisecracks and insults, people flock to him like drowning men to lifeboats. Because in the end, it's neither his personality nor brain that attract the crowd to him, it's his father's fortune.

Because Tony Stark is and always will be Howard Stark's legacy.

The Dean clears her throat, "this can't continue. I have been overlooking your…blunders in the past."

Tony shrugs. It isn't as if he has meant for things to explode; but in the name of science, sacrifices must be made. Howard has been the one to teach him this.

"You are young, much younger than everyone here so you're viable to make mistakes, but blowing up the technology lab, injuring three classmates, and threatening your professor will _not_ be ignored."

"I told them to leave. The component was unstable." Tony shrugs.

The Dean shakes with unspeakable anger, her cheeks puff and her entire face is red. "You _snuggled C-4 into the lab!_"

Tony laughs at her face because it reminds him too much of a blowfish. But seriously, nobody is hurt beyond a few scratches and bruises. Even Tony—who has been the closest person to the explosive—makes it out just fine. Not even a dent to the good-ol' armor.

"What's the big deal? That lab was funded by my father anyway. He'll send a check or something," Tony comments lightly, rolling his eyes. Adults: making a big deal out of everything since the dawn of time.

"Where did you _even get C-4?_" she demands then thinks better of it, "No! Don't tell me!" she nearly screeches when Tony opens his mouth to answer. "I don't want to know!"

Tony shrugs, "Your lost."

She gapes, like she couldn't believe what she's hearing. Tony is tempted to tell her about flies and open mouth but thinks better of it. He just wants to ruffle her feather, not be permanently suspended from the other labs.

The Dean—Tony thinks he _really_ should learn her name, given the number of times he's been visiting her in his short college life thus far—huffs and puffs, grabbing a random manila envelope off the table and using it to fan herself. He snorts at her overreaction.

"Mr. Stark," she says his name like a prayer, a mental reminder for herself _why_ she's putting up with his shit. "As I said, your behavior is unacceptable. Not only did you vandalize school's properties, you're also lowering our school's morale. Our students cannot be expected to behave if you're free to do as you please."

"What can you do about it?" Tony asks casually. There isn't much they can do short of throwing him in jail and get it over with.

"I've contacted your guardian." There's a triumphant look on her face, like she has found the kryptonite to his super-strength (or super-apathy). He almost pities her false hope. It isn't like Howard cares.

God forbids the man even knows what the emotion is.

"How much is he sending you?"

"Pardon me?"

Tony snorts at her feigned 'oblivious' tone, "The _compensation_ money."

"We're not a charity, Mr. Stark, and you are not a charity case." Her tone is softer, like it's been painted with pity. Like she knows the turmoil that's running amok in his brain.

Tony snarls but remains silent.

"You are, however, a student of this school and you will need to conduct yourself as such." Before she could continue, the high shrill sound of the phone echoes through the room.

Tony cringes at the sound while she gleefully answers, "Hello? Yes, send him in." She pauses to give him a victorious glance. "Thank you, Stacy."

"Who came? My butler?" Tony asks, because he is genuinely curious. No one has ever came for him before, not even the servants. They're not paid enough to put up with the troublemaking heir.

"Your uncle, Steve Rogers, I believe."

_Oh, Fuck no! _

Tony doesn't care that she can see the complete horror flashing across his face. All he cares about is getting out of here before the other man arrives. If his calculation is correct, it should take the man a good thirty seconds to walk from the front desk to the semi-hidden office of the Dean. Given that he has wasted 17.5 seconds talking with her, he should have approximatel—

Before him stands is a 6'2'' man precisely put together in buttons up shirt, neatly tucked into brown chinos, a total contrast to Tony's three-day old clothes and partially burned hair. Tony groans, abandons his escape plan, and plops back down onto his chair.

The Dean rises from her seat to greet Steve. "Thank you for coming, Mr. Rogers."

They shake hands as Steve gives her a dazzling smile. Tony can see her swoon a little.

"I hope our office wasn't difficult to find. It's a little hidden behind the physics department." Steve continues to smile at her.

There's a moment of awkward silence that passes between the two of them as Tony rolls his eyes at the ceiling. God, worse combination of the century.

"Please, uh—" The Dean's tone is much less cheery now, "—have a seat."

Steve sits down where she direct and looks at her expectantly. When it's obvious that he isn't speaking, she begins, "I understand that your time is valuable so I'll get straight to the point. As I have explained on the phone, Mr. Stark needs to be supervised. He is too young to be allowed free reign. Three of our students had to be admitted to the local hospital due to his recent transgression and one of our professor resigned. I would like to discuss some viable solutions with you."

She stares at him expectantly as Steve pats his pants pockets. Impatiently, she clears her throat to catch his attention. When Steve shows no sign of acknowledgement, she repeats a bit louder and more forcefully. Tony snorts when the man continues his search for whatever, completely oblivious to her.

"Mr. Rogers," she calls. Tony can tell that she's biting the inside of her mouth to refrain from cursing. Steve looks up but not at her. Instead, his eyes scan her desk like he has not heard her call.

"Mr. Rogers, What is it that you're looking for? Or can we just focus on the matter at hand?" After so many times visiting her, Tony can tell that the Dean's patient is completely gone.

Finally found what he's looking for, Steve points at the notepad sitting in front of her with a broad smile. A series of hand gestures follow. Her eyes twitch violent.

"Yes, I am a woman, and yes, I do have administrative power because I've earned it! Sir! Please be serious!" she snaps as she pulls her blouse together and away from pointed fingers. Steve's smile disappears as he shakes his head furiously, hands denying the accusation.

She growls, "If you are here to make jabs at me on your nephew's behalf, I request that you leave before I call security."

Tony groans as he watches Steve struggles to communicate.

"For fuck's sakes! He can't hear you; he's deaf!" Tony barks, "and he's not insulting you. He's asking to borrow your damn notepad! Because you obviously don't know ASL!"

Tony stomps over to her desk to snatch the notepad and dumps it on Steve's lap. Steve looks at him with gratitude and accepts it with a broad smile. Tony is almost guilty at his attempt to escape earlier.

Stunted, she looks back and forth between the two of them. "Then h-how did he understand what I was saying?"

"He reads lips, duh," Tony remarks, resting a hand on his eyes as if to block out the world. He can hear the scratching of the sketching pencil Steve always carries with him against paper. He can almost tell what the other man is writing: _I'm very sorry for Tony…my fault…I'm sorry…I'll watch out for him…won't happening again…sorry…sorry…_

_I'm so sorry._

He has seen it a thousand times already.

It's what Steve does best: takes the fall for Tony's mistake.

It happened once when he was in elementary school. The teacher couldn't contact his parents, with Maria intoxicated on alcohols and drugs and Howard on greed, Steve had showed up to apologize as if he'd rehearsed—or written—it a million times. After that, Tony took great care to forge a fake contact number on his file. Even going as far as designing his own answering system that runs on a loop, making the caller wait and wait forever for no one to pick up. He had been eight at the time.

That doesn't even account for all the times Steve stands for him against Howard. Because Tony will never be good enough and Howard will always criticize him for it.

And only Steve is on his side. Only Steve is there for the lonely heir.

Tony resents him for it. He doesn't need someone like Steve to stand up for him.

Steve who is deaf and mute.

Steve who works as his father's lowly assistant despite the man's brilliance.

Steve who could be so much more if he is a little more '_complete_:' no broken vocal cords, no damaged ear drums.

But he isn't.

And society hates him for it. _Tony_ _hates him_: for settling, for giving up, for giving in to set standards.

He tries to block the sound of the pencil against paper out but it keeps invading into the sanction of his mind. Tony curses his good health, wishing he is also deaf just so that he doesn't have to face the reality of Steve being here, of Steve sincerely writing an apology just to have it ripped apart by the norms of society the moment they're out the door, of the badly concealed, condescending glances and pitied whispers behind closed doors. Of—

Tony stands up suddenly, the back of the chair hits the carpet with a soft 'thump.' He can see the sympathetic look the Dean directs at Steve before looking at him.

He needs to get out of here.

"I've been up for more than 48 hours," Tony excuses lamely. He doesn't wait for permission to leave. He walks out without a backward glance.

Even so, he can feel the frantic look Steve is giving him.

"Oh my god, I was so embarrassed. I didn't know if he was an idiot or—"

Tony speeds up, hoping to make his exit before he could catch anything else. He doesn't want to hear whatever they have to say.

"—Don't say 'idiot.' It's degrading—the proper term is 'deaf-and-mute'—"

There's nothing proper about it!

"—Don't you mean 'deaf-and-dumb?' Poor Stark, no wonder he's so messed up with that kind of uncle—"

Shut up. Shut up! _Shutupshutupshutup—_

He breaks into a run: pass the break room, through the reception area, and out the door. He keeps going and going as the landscape zooms pass him at the corner of his eyes. His muscles scream from the exertion, his lungs burn as he takes in lungful breathe through his mouth, there's a buzz in his head that's impeding his cognition, his vision clouds, and tears collect at the brim of his eyes from the tearing pain in his heart.

Finally everything comes to a halt as he collapses onto the grass a few buildings away, he's blacking out.

Tony welcomes it.

* * *

Steve:

Whiteness washed over his vision when he first opened his eyes. It took Steve a few blinks to clear his vision as every came into focus. White ceiling stretched out to meet white walls at four corners of the room. He wanted to sit up; he _tried_ to sit up but to no avail because every movement _hurt_. Steve panicked because he wasn't used to being so vulnerable since the serum. He was afraid that he was back in his old, sickly body, that everything that had happened—the serum, the war, _Peggy_—was a dream.

So despite the excruciating pain, the brain-numbing stabs at every muscles, he braced his arms against the bed and pushed himself forward. Steve grinded his teeth together so hard that his vision shook fervently from the vibration of his skull, and because every move, every twitch resulted in great agony, Steve lost his hold and collapsed backward. His hand tangled among the sheets and Steve went tumbling off the bed and onto the hard floor.

Pain exploded in every fiber of his being.

He opened his mouth to scream when he could no longer hold it back. Instead, he was hit with a different kind of pain. Whereas before, everything inside him exploded like the burning flares of hellfire, now there were claws everywhere ripping into his throat: ten upon hundreds of sharp edges of every size, every length dug into the veins at his neck and ripping them out one by one.

His entire body shook uncontrollably; his mouth opened in a soundless scream. Whiteness washed over him and Steve convulsed violently, teetering on an invisible edge of total anguish and complete oblivion.

The ground around him vibrated and it grounded him back to the room. Steve could only see lips moving through narrowed slits and blurry vision; lips that were moving fast and sure, telling him things that Steve was sure he could hear if the pain would subside.

There was a buzzing in his ears, a white noise that slowly growing in volume until nothing else could be heard. Steve wanted to grab his ears in rage because he couldn't handle this right now. He needed to focus on whatever the nurse was telling him and the noise was becoming a distraction. Too loud to hear over, borderline deafening.

There were more nurses in the room with him now, and Steve wasn't sure what he should do. In his right mind, he would be standing straight and proper. There were hands everywhere on his body, grasping tightly around aching muscles. Even without the ability to hear, he knew what they were attempting.

He opened his mouth to protest because he wasn't sure if he could take another bout of pain.

Nothing came out.

In a synchronizing effort, they hoisted him up. Pain flooded his every senses as he opened his mouth to a silent, broken scream.

Darkness became his world.

* * *

Tony:

His room is unusually bright when Tony opens his eyes. Tony hisses at the slight burn his eyes receive as he pulls the blanket up to cover his head. It is pointedly pulled away from under him a few seconds later.

He groans, sitting up and rubbing his eyes. Steve's bright smile comes into focus once his hands are no longer obstructing the view. Tony groans even louder.

"What're you doing here?" he asks—with both his voice and hands—before, "Oh, that's right. The dean."

_Yes, and I'm very disappointed in you, mister,_ Steve signals in a flurry of hand motions.

Tony bemoans into his own hands even though he knows logically that Steve needs to at least be able to see his mouth in order to know what he's saying. Used to his antics, Steve merely goes back to what he has been doing. When Tony looks up, he realizes that the older man is folding his laundry at the end of his bed. When Steve reaches for his boxer shorts, Tony hastily jumps for it and takes it from Steve's much larger hands.

"I can do my own laundry!" Tony exclaims, shoving the shorts back in the basket, pulling it toward himself and away from Steve's mother-hen hands. Claws…_whatever_ chicken has.

Steve raises a skeptical eyebrow while he lets Tony do as he please. Under Steve's watchful eyes, Tony clumsily folds a few shirts before giving up and pushing the basket aside.

_You'll need to learn how to do this eventually, you know,_ Steve signs and Tony shrugs.

"Howard doesn't have to. I doubt he even knows how to." Steve frowns as Tony cringes. They don't talk about Howard, it's one of those unspoken rules of thumb between the two of them. The man is a sore spot for them both.

"Sorry," he apologizes sincerely even though it isn't in his nature to be sorry. Steve is the only one he's comfortable enough to bear his soul freely.

Steve shrugs, a habit he's picked up from Tony because Steve is anything but nonchalant. The man is honest and sincere in his default mode.

_Nothing to apologize for._

"You know that's a lie." Tony watches Steve's face closely. Years of knowing the man, he's learned to pick up the subtle hints from Steve's body expression.

Steve's face is impartial, like he truly believes that Tony has no fault to speak of. But Tony continues to study Steve. He watches as the other man picks up his comforter and sniffs before making a face and throwing it in the makeshift, dirty pile.

Tony laughs a little at his face.

"So, what did the Dean say?"

_Nothing much. _ Like every other time, Steve's entire focus is on Tony, reading his lips and analyzing his reaction. The singled-minded attention he gets from the older man always sends pleasant tremor throughout his body. It makes him feel special, like there's no one else in the world who's as important as he is.

Tony is intoxicated by it.

He takes it as his conscious substituting Steve for the absent father.

_We came to an agreement, you're not allowed in the labs without supervision and they'll only suspend your lab privilege for a week. _

"A week?!" Tony cries, scrambling off the bed. He jumps into Steve's space and straight in front of the man's vision. "That's too long! There are science to be done!"

Steve drops the dirty clothes that he's holding and rests his hands on Tony's shoulder in comfort. He smiles. _It's not so bad. You can take the time off to rest and…re-organize._

He glances around Tony's room with a feigned disgust. Then he looks back at Tony with a grin to communicate his jest. He then goes back to collecting the clothes scatter about.

Tony rolls his eyes and smiles. "I'll go stir crazy if I don't do anything."

_You'll figure it out. Besides, I'll check up on you in two weeks time._

Tony twitches.

"Two weeks? What's happening in two weeks? Am I going home?" Somewhere deep inside, a little child hopes with his little heart that Howard is requesting his return because he misses him.

_It's part of the agreement: I'll have to visit at least once a month._

Tony knows he shouldn't be disappointed but he couldn't help his sadden expression. He sits back on the bed and runs a hand through his hair, cringing at the oily texture.

"Thanks, uh—" Tony begins while scratching distractingly a particularly itchy spot behind his ear. "—for, you know, carrying me back. I know I'm heavy."

Steve frowns, _actually, I think you need to eat more. You're nothing but skin and bones! _

"Whoa, not everyone can be superman like you." There's a hint of resentment in his tone but Steve doesn't pay it any mind.

_How did you get the C-4 anyway?_

"Local gas station." Tony smirks at Steve's disbelieving look before shrugging. "I'm a Stark; ask, and thou shall receive."

When Tony doesn't stop from scratching behind his ears, Steve comes forward with a small bottle of baby powders. Shaking a small amount onto his hands, he spreads it evenly behind Tony's ears. Tony moans with appreciation as the powder and Steve's hand work to ease his itch.

_Your skin is easily irritated, you also need to bathe more often, _ Steve comments easily when he retreats, and adds, _and that's not how the quote goes._

"You know what I mean, my last name opens doors. The end."

_You shouldn't use it like that_.

"Says the broken relic—" he slaps both hands over his mouth, eyes widening and alarms sound in his head, damning his temper to hell and beyond! "—Steve, I didn't mea—"

But Steve is no longer looking at him; instead, he hoists Tony's basket of dirty laundry and leaves the room, closing the door softly behind him.

Tony wants to run after him, to force the man to accept his apology but there's no point. Steve'll accept his apology but it won't make him feel any less guilty.

Tony closes his eyes with a long sigh.

* * *

Steve:

When Steve opened his eyes, he was alone. He knew he shouldn't have his hopes up; Howard was a busy man who had no time to waste on a damaged figurehead, Peggy had her own life to live and it didn't include him. Bucky…

Well, Steve didn't want to think about Bucky. He had visited the man's empty grave, said his piece—consisted of mostly apologies and regrets at his own inability to keep his best friend safe—and never looked back. He _couldn't_ even if he wanted to because Steve had no rights. It was his own failure that had resulted in the man's undeserving death. If Steve had been just bit stronger, just a little faster, just _more_ altogether.

But he wasn't, and now he was alone in the new world that he awoke to, to new changes and to lost years. Alone in a soundless world of his own misery and guilt, unable to sound his despair without painful repercussion. On good days, Steve didn't need the invisible claws to rip out his vocal cords, he was more than able to do it himself.

On bad days, he wished he had simply died.

Because now, his only friend, the one constant in his comatose life, was the nightmares that visited him at night. Always reminding him of the coldness of being frozen, the burn of water-filled lungs, and disappearing view of blue sky. Always and forever pulling him back in the dark world of loneliness and _ice._

Steve bit the inside of his mouth, a habit he'd developed since waking up to keep from screaming out loud, from voicing his anger and abusing the deteriorating vocal cords. But somewhere in his unstable mind, Steve _wanted_ the pain, something to ground him, to keep him steady in this time, at this moment. To keep him sane.

He wasn't dead, but not _alive _either. He was still sharp, still every bit the man he was before plunging into the vast sea, but no longer seen as such. Merely a remnant of what used to be, of what could've been. That he was too broken to be fixed, too fragmented with chipped pieced left behind at the bottom of the sea to be completed.

He threw a vase at the wall. He knew what sound it should make, the crashing of ceramic against plywood, the series of fallen pieces against marble floor. The sound, fresh in his mind like he had just heard it yesterday, sounded true in his head but nothing was perceived through his ears.

Red anger overtook his every senses. He, the wretched excuse of a man, stood amid the beauties and perfections of Stark mansion and wanted nothing more than to mess it all up; ripped at the straight walls and tore at the curtains, smashed and destroyed the fine ornaments with a burning anger until nothing was standing, until he wasn't the only imperfection.

Because there was no place for him in this perfect world.

Angrily, Steve grabbed a clock with every intension of smashing it against the wall. There were movements at the corner of his eyes and he redirected his anger there. The door to his room was slightly ajar and irrationally, Steve found it enraging. With a snarl and ignoring the pain that brought, he aimed for the door.

He regretted his action immediately when an innocent face was revealed from behind the door.

_Terrified_.

Howard's son stood before him with tearful eyes and trembling little hands, clutching tightly on to a spiral notebook as crayons of differing shades of red and blue scattered at his feet.

_I'm sorry_, Steve wanted to say but nothing came forth from his lips. He moved forward in hesitant steps, as if approaching a frightful animal. The boy fled with his notebook, never once looked back.

He didn't give chase. Instead, Steve stared at the fallen crayons laid in ruins on the floor, broken and discarded.

He closed his eyes to hide from the sight of his reality.

* * *

Tony:

The legal drinking age is twenty-one. It doesn't mean that he can't obtain alcohol; he's Anthony _I-can-do-any-fucking-thing _Stark. Honest to god truth, he doesn't truly know where all of his alcohols come from, he just knows that they are _there_ and he needs them. Most of them are the cheap, convenient-store types, unlike the smooth scotch at Howard's mansion. He grows up on fine dining and cultured wine, he can easily tell the difference.

It doesn't mean that he cares enough to limit himself. He takes what he can get, anything to dull the constantly crunching numbers in his mind. His brain is his only redeeming quality; it is also the ultimate enemy, always working, inventing and analyzing and calculating. Never resting, or giving him peace of mind.

People think of him foolish for wanting to dull something so magnificent. They're not in his shoes. They're not being driven up the wall by their own imagination—literally.

So Tony drinks, but even in the haze of alcohol-induced state, Tony still thinks. He's still thinking about the codes siting on his personal computer, the robotic arm he's developing in the lab, the half-finished circuit board under his bed. Even in his drunken stupor, he can't escape from being Anthony E. Stark.

But he'll try. Because on most days, he doesn't want to be himself.

Most of the time, he just wants to escape.

"Oi, Stark," someone calls him. Tony doesn't remember the guy's name. "Awesome party!"

Tony grins and waves his beer in the guy's direction as a bombshell of a beauty in skin-fitting dress grinds up into his space. Unhesitant, Tony directs his attention to her instead, leering at her choice of clothing. She soaks up the attention, pushing her D-cup into his chest in a provocative manner.

Tony could get on board with this. "Why, hello to you, too."

"Hi," she greets breathlessly. It's hard to hear over the thumping sound of electric bass in the background so Tony leans into her space. She easily accommodates him.

"How are you tonight, sweetheart?"

She giggles coyly and Tony knows that he's scored good and well tonight. "Better, now that you're here."

He's leaving butterfly kisses on her neck when a strong grip pulls him away. Mentally, he groans and bitches about possessive boyfriend.

Instead, Rhodey's sourpuss face comes into view.

"Rhodes! What bring you here to my dorm of depravity?" Tony is all grin and jest. He knows it drives the other man crazy because Rhodey is the resident leader. He's the cop to Tony's criminal.

There's a look of concern etched on his face. Tony laughs because Rhodey doesn't seem to possess any other expression except that. "Come on now lemonhead, live a little. You can reprimand me tomorrow."

"Stark, there's a phone call for you." Tony frowns, looking around to find his hand-held device, then remembers that he's taken it apart a day previously to improve its performance and decrease the size. He shrugs and returning to the blonde in his hands.

"It's fine, they can call back," he says into her shoulder. Rhodes pulls him hard with the back of his shirt and drags him away from his room. Tony sputters with disbelief.

"Rh-_Rhodes_, what is _up_ with you, man?"

"You _need _to take this call," Rhodey replies, completely ignoring Tony's protest and struggle against the hold on his shirt.

"Calm yourself, it can't be tha—"

"—Today, our nation mourns the lost of a patriotic man and his wife—" Tony pauses and digs his feet onto the ground. As if sensing the change in his attitude, Rhodey releases him and allows Tony to straighten up. They're standing in the hallway immediately adjacent to the recreational room. There's a single black-and-white television that stands at the opposite end. There are students crowding around it, watching the pixilated screen that flickers from time to time: the school is too cheap to update to the newer colored ones that have better image stability.

But it doesn't matter at this moment. Frozen where he stands, Tony can't see the screen. He doesn't see the face of the news reporter, nor the procession of pictures that follows. But he _can _hear. He hears _Howard and Maria Stark, death in a fatal car crash._ The words of _tragic _and _grieving son_ bundle together like tangled yarn. There're chaos in his mind and nothingness in his heart. Logically, he thinks he should feel sadness and grief, but there's only nothing.

In his mind, he sees himself drowning, pulls under by the nothingness.

* * *

Steve:

_He was drowning. Icy water surrounded him, suffocating and tearing at his seams. It cut into his skin and splicing through his insides, pulling apart everything he was and destroying everything he wished to be. Whatever future he may had have. _

_But the water was inconsequential. No, Steve's attention was entirely on the distressed face before him. He could ignore the cutting pain in favor of Peggy's high cheekbones and red, apple lips warped into an ugly sight of anguish. He reached out to her but there were layers of ice between them. There were tears falling without restraint from her beautiful brown eyes. He wanted to wipe them away but he had no strength. _

_He watched her delicate hands turned pulsing red as she pounded the ice. He couldn't stop her from scratching her nails bloody against the hard, unforgiving ice. He turned away from the hoarse sound of her cries. There were tendrils of darkness, wrapped tight around his ankles. They pulled and pulled, slowly and surely, and Steve sunk lower and lower. He was giving up as he turned for a last look at Peggy's distraught face. His final sight of her consisted of smeared makeup and bloody fingers, of blood covered ice and disappearing sky._

Steve jolted to consciousness, panting harshly and wincing at the numbing, but familiar, pain. He came to blue sky and rolling green and realized that he had fallen asleep in the garden of Howard's estate. Rubbing his eyes, he tried to wipe away the nightmare. It wasn't working.

Steve stood up and stretched, thinking that he should go back inside but deciding against it. There wasn't anything for him to do and he'd rather be here, under the sun, than trapped by the four haunting corners of his room.

Something moved at the corner of his eyes and Steve turned to it. Behind a large Corinthian column was Anthony, shy eyes peered at him. Despite being caught, the boy didn't shuffle away. Instead, the longer Steve stared, the bolder the boy became: inching forward slowly before hiding behind another large object. Columns, pots, bushes, the likes.

Steve smiled at his attempts at stealth and the boy seemed to be encouraged by his expression, stumbled the last few steps to stand in front of him. His eyes casted at the ground while hands held the familiar notebook. Without looking at Steve, he flipped through the pages and settled on one before showing it to Steve.

_Hi. I'm Anthony_, scrawled in red, childlike handwriting. It made Steve smiled and for the first time in a while, he wanted to reply.

But he couldn't speak and Steve ended up staring sadly at the boy. Anthony, too smart to be five, pushed the notebook into his hands with a bright smile. His mouth seemed to be saying something that Steve can't catch. Instead, he took the offered pad and stared at it reverently. Now that he had it, he wasn't sure what to say. But the expectant look on the boy's face urged him forward.

_I'm Steve,_ he wrote and gave it to Anthony.

The boy's smile widened. _I know, _Steve read upside-down as the boy wrote in large, blocky letters. _Dadd_, he crossed out and replaced with, _Father said you're my new uncle. _

Steve frowned at the correction but was greatly impressed by the boy's language. It was much too advanced for a child of five years.

When Anthony passed the notepad back to him, Steve took it and quickly wrote, _I'm sorry for scaring you the other night._

_It's fine. Father gets mad too when his inventions don't work. Are you also an inventor?_

_No, I'm,_ Steve paused. What was he? Anthony peered curiously at him when Steve continued, _just helping out. I was mad because I couldn't talk._

_Oh, I know. You're deaf-and-dumb. I heard it from father. _The look of pride from the boy didn't help to make Steve feel better about himself. Deaf-and-dumb, this was what he had become. Anthony was much too perceptive for a child and noticed his change in attitude almost immediately.

_It's okay that you're deaf-and-dumb._

That didn't quell the disappointment and Anthony knew. The boy tucked away his notebook and grabbed Steve's hand. His mouth was moving but Steve heard nothing. Anger bubbled at the edge of his mind. He was led through the mansion and ended up in Anthony's room, left to stand awkwardly by the door as the boy shuffled through the drawers. A look of triumph crossed his face as he pulled out a thick text, too heavy for his wiry arms, and dragged it in front of Steve.

He looked up at him with hopeful expression. Obligingly, Steve read the title.

_Talking with your hands, listening with your eyes: A complete photographic guide to American Sign Language. _

Surprised, he froze. The boy's expression fell but there was a stubborn glint in his eyes. Without waiting for him to response, Anthony flipped through the pages and shoved it under Steve's chins, forcing him to look at it. Stubby fingers pointed at the series of pictures that showed various hand motions. The words read, _okay._

With frantic waves of his hands, Anthony caught his attention. When Steve turned to look at him, Tony pointed to Steve. He mimicked the boy's motion and pointed to himself.

Tony grinned. _You._ _O.K.A.Y._

Even with his lacked of experience, Steve could tell how clumsy the boy's movements were. But it didn't matter. He watched as the boy repeated the gestures, more to practice than to repeat the word.

_O.K.A.Y._

_You're okay._

Steve hiccuped a little. He tried to blink away the tears that were coming uninhibitedly.

_I'm okay._

* * *

Tony:

_Fuck, he's not okay. _Tony groans as searing pain spreads through his body. His head feels like a crowbar takes a beating to it. Repeatedly. He tries to pull himself to a sitting position because the bed he's lying hard as rock and whines loudly when the movement causes his head to explode in pain. Eventually, he manages to a sitting position while nursing his poor head.

Whatever party he was at last night must have been intense. He hopes it was worth it.

"You're finally up," he hears and Tony whimpers at the pain the sound causes.

"Fuck, my head is killing me. Leave me alone," he whines. The chuckling isn't helping and Tony would've growled if it doesn't hurt so much to move.

"I regret that I can't do that," the voice says, and for the first time, Tony notices the villainous quality to the voice. Don't ask how he can tell, he'll probably blame it on comic books.

Struggling against the pain, Tony looks at the perpetrator. The typical stout man with a deformed scar supervillain stereotype is forever scratched off Tony's mental list. He needs to cut back on the comics. Instead, the man in front of him is tall. The suit looks to be tailored to the man's form, fitting in all the right places. Tony admits that he's a little jealous because his own suit doesn't look quite as good. It is possible that his own scrawny body is to blame versus the man's toned physique.

His face is also pleasing to look at, strong jaw and exotic green eyes. If he isn't his kidnapper, Tony would tap that.

"Stark Inc. doesn't deal with ransom demands," Tony comments offhandedly despite his growing fear. How long has it been since his last kidnapping incident? Five? Ten years?

The man simply chuckles. It infuriates him but Tony keeps his tongue. "Foolish boy—"

"Not so wise yourself," Tony snarls. He dislikes being called a fool. "Showing your face to the target."

The man doesn't respond to his taunt. "—I don't need your _filthy_ money."

His face warps into an ugly sneer and dread fills Tony's vision. But he merely shrugs. "If you say so."

"You think you're invincible on your high horse."

Tony mentally flinches at the hatred in his tone. Outwardly, he grounds himself to the floor and watches as the man approaches. Each step echoes across the room from the sound of gravel ground against expensive shoes soles. It grows louder as he comes closer. Tony's heartbeat pounds loudly in his ribs, wanting to bust out from its protective hold. Tony makes sure to keep his face impassive.

"So powerful with your blood money—"

"Okay, I get it. You hate capitalism. Can I just—" He doesn't see the foot that comes at him. Tony feels the pain, though, when the impact is made against his ribs cage. He falls back, gasping at the burn and coughing uncontrollably to get enough air back in his lungs. There's a cruel laugh from above but he's too hurt to care.

"Your brave act is adorable, Mr. Stark."

His hand is caught under one of the man's shoes. Tony opens his mouth to scream when pressure is applied. The flat of his palm presses against the floor, scrapping at the soft skin, while the bones in his hand resist futilely against the pressure. He feels them crushing under the stress.

"But, rest assured, I'm certified to see through you."

"Great," Tony grunts through the pain because he needs something to ground him, to keep him from giving in to whatever the sick bastard wants. "You can be my underpaid therapist."

Surprisingly, the foot moves away and Tony quickly pulls his hand to his chest before the man changes his mind. A hand comes to grip the back of his head and shoves him harshly against the nearest wall. Stars spot behind his eyelids as his ears flush with blood from the pain. He can feel traces of blood on the side of his head where it impacts against the wall.

"Motherfucker! The hell do you want from me?"

The fucker tsk's, clicking his tongue against the roof of his mouth before regarding Tony. Through pain-clouded mind, Tony bites his lower lip to keep from sarcastic remarks.

"Not everything is about _you_, you with your silver platter and golden spoons."

"False! My plates are ceramic and golden spoons are just dumb." The backhand he receive is worth it, he tells himself as he spits out blood from his mouth.

There's a sigh from the other man. There are traces of weariness to it, like Tony's an overgrown child that can't take a hint.

"I don't want to hurt you, Mr. Stark. Why can't we just be civilized?"

Tony snorts. "You tell me."

"There's nothing you can give me, not really. I just need _you_ to be on your best behavior for a while. Once the time is up, you can be on your merry way and not ever have to see me again."

"Look, Hyde-n-Jekyll, I don't know what your problem is but I don't do well being told what to do."

"Always the trouble child, I see."

"You _don't know me!_"

"I do," the bastard convinces. "But I don't have time for you right now." A large and bulky man enters the room with crossed arms and a deep frown. Tony twitches at the cliché of the entrance. "Be a good boy." The lackey moves toward him and Tony stumbles backward when he sees the large syringe in the man's grip.

The man easily catches Tony and holds him steadfast with one hand. He stabs Tony with the needle and the world blurs around him. He hears the men leaving the room, feel his head hitting the hard floor, but he's too high and delirious on the drug to care.

The world slips away.


End file.
